The Odds Were Never In Our Favor
by Skey
Summary: I'm going to die. I don't know how to fight or kill. I, like anyone else around here, never grasped the concept. We, people of the Capitol, out of the reach of the Games, never realized the truth. That people died. That someday, we might be the pawns.
1. Prologue

**First Hunger Games fanfiction. My thoughts on how the 76****th**** Games would be, from the point of view of semi-OC Nieve Snow. Enjoy. **

**This is more of an introduction, a prologue if you want. Kind of boring, but it does give some information that might end up being useful. **

**Disclaimer: The Hunger Games are the property of Suzanne Collins. All rights reserved.**

_My life has never been meaningful._

_I was born here in the Capitol, raised here in the Capitol. I don't know my mother; she left long before I could speak or move around. My father was a distant figure to me, important in stature. He has always made sure there was someone to educate me, someone to dress me, feed me, cater to my every whim. I've lived a spoiled existence, sheltered by one of the finest and largest homes in all of Panem. I've never been to a public school before, and the few people I'd met who are my age are all the sons and daughters of other important people. We never really got along; they were always on their guard around me, trying to impress me or (more likely) flat-out unimpressed by me. It's easy for me to say that I've never really had any friends. _

_Even though I know hardly anyone, the entire country has at some point known of me. I'm not stupid. They either hated, mocked, or blindly adored my grandfather, and so by extension they either hated, mocked, or blindly adored me. I know that the first two by far represent the feelings of the country at the moment. I am just as guilty as he is in everything that has been done. His crimes are my own. And I know of the rumors about me, because no one has tried to hide them._

_There are a few inconveniences in being the granddaughter of President Snow._

_A few whispers here and there go a long way. By now, everyone who doesn't live under a rock knows of the decision made by the remaining victors behind closed doors. The one about the seventy-sixth Games._

_Whispers aren't really an understatement. They've really tried to keep it a more or less quiet thing. A last surprise for those who feel entertainment-deprived, a joke at our expense for the pleasure of the Districts. A way for them to fully revel in their new freedom. _

_I don't blame them. The fact is, the Capitol blames me. Some of them share the opinion that I am the catalyst of these particular games. Of course, Nieve Snow provides the perfect excuse. I am of age. I am ex-president Snow's flesh and blood. The ideal way to get their revenge, to get the Capitol to tick. To get my family to tick. My grandfather caused this mess, and now I am somehow causing a new kind of horror that the Capitol has never had to consider facing so far. Because it will be their children who will be dying alongside of me. The fact is, they think that if I didn't exist, there wouldn't be a need for these games. And so they hate me. They need someone to hate._

_Sometimes it makes me want to scream. They don't seem to understand that these people aren't only punishing my family. My grandfather is dead; at this point, they just want to make sure that the entire Capitol has gotten the point. What better way than the mark the end of the so-called Hunger Games by hosting a final one. Featuring the children of the ones who killed their children. I'm only a lucky bonus._

_But sometimes, I can't help but agree with them. It is my fault. I can't erase the things that my family has done. I can't even begin to understand them. I've never been anywhere but within the limits of the Capitol; I've never had a reason to be. I've never seen the conditions of District 11, or questioned from where my food came. It's not something people do around here._

_I used to like to sit by my window and draw. I'd draw anything and everything I could see from there; a few brightly colored housing units, the grey sky, the trees. I once spent a long month of stolen moments and patient waiting observing some bird I still don't know the name of, committing each aspect to memory and sketching it painstakingly. I can sketch every small detail of a plant, dozens of different plants. And yet, I don't know what each of them are. I don't know what they do. I never asked. In my own defense, I probably wouldn't have been answered. I doubt anyone around me knew._

_I could go into every single detail of my life, if I wanted to. I could describe the way my fays seemed to blend fluidly together, the way routine never changed, how I learned about so many things I knew I'd never have the opportunity to do; flying a kite, or playing hide-and-seek, tasting a snowflake. I've never even seen snow. Irony is cruel._

_It wouldn't even take me long. As I first said, my life has meaningless. It has been dull, simplistic, a wave of etiquette and specific behaviors to be observed. It is not the life I would have chosen for myself. But I can't choose my life any more than I can chose my family._

_My name is Nieve. I am sixteen years old. Two weeks ago, I was taken away from everything I have ever known. I can't even tell you exactly where I am, because they haven't told me anything. When I first asked, they look at me contemptuously, or smiled with some sort of sick satisfaction. I now know that they are Avox, and they cannot speak. Another idea by the people who, just a few short months ago, were ruling Panem. _

_They still show me no sympathy. I don't expect them to._

_In the weeks that followed the Mockinjay's assassination of "President" Coin, mass confusion reigned. These particular Games, already in the early planning stages, were put on hold. There was the Mockingjay trial, and then nothing. A brief interlude of emptiness. We didn't know what to do, or expect. We were afraid. We knew it wasn't the end. Of course, that's when the Games rumors started up, after it became apparent that they weren't just going to wipe us out. That's when people really started hating me. It was already safer to hate me than it was to hate anyone from the "other side"._

_It's been a few month, and I'm now going to die soon. I am going to die because I am the central target of the people here. The target of my competitors. They more than likely all hate me._

_Besides. I don't know how to fight, let alone kill anyone. I, just like anyone else around here, never really grasped the concept. We, spoiled people of the Capitol, far out of the reach of the Games, somehow failed to realize that they were real. That they actually happened; that real people died. _

_That someday, we might be the pawns, that ones that others would raptly watch as we eradicated each other._

_Nieve Snow is not a name I've even been proud of. Even though I never knew much about my grandfathers politics, I never really agreed with them. But I never hated him. I hate these people that have put me here, because they are no better. I don't know what's going on. I don't know who's running Panem now. I don't know what's become of the Mockingjay. But just as once upon a time, the Capitol sentenced her to death, she has now sentenced me to death. It is a never-ending cycle. _

_I find myself craving the life I never really knew I had. A life where important events are not just marked by the changing of the color of your hair or skin or modifying your face, but rather on family and love. I find myself desperately wishing I had known more about places that wouldn't think me odd for wanting these things. _

_Soon, the seventy-sixth Hunger Games will begin. The fact is, we, the spoiled offspring of the Capitol are far more ill-equipped than almost any of the District children ever were. The odds were never in our favor. _

_They had never needed to be until now._


	2. Chapter 2

I drop the knife. Again and again. Constant repetition. I somehow can't manage to do anything with it. Stabbing things really gets the people laughing. I wasn't aware that you weren't supposed to stab things with a knife. Or that there was a proper way to do so. I decide that I hate training.

I can feel the mocking gazes of the trainers surrounding me. At least it's not just me they laugh at. Their contempt is for everyone else, as well.

I don't know many of the other Tributes, although there are a few familiar faces from past luncheons and dinners. Blaise Oleson, for example. She's struggling to hold her bow properly, her pretty little face screwed up in concentration. I remember that once Rory Illumons put something in her drink, winking at me as he did. I remember staring back cautiously, and then my barely suppressed laughter as she gagged violently. She had fixed me with a killer glare, and I couldn't help but smile back cheekily.

We haven't really gotten along since.

Further down, Iris DeFay is trying knots with, shockingly, an actual sense of what she's doing. She's with some boy I don't know, and they whisper every now and then, glancing my way. He glares at me, while she just looks at me, her expression unreadable. I pretend not to notice, turning back to my knife. The Tribute who was supposed to be in training with me left long ago.

Iris's father worked with my own. Somewhere high up in politics. I suppose that means that the rebels shot him at the same time as they shot mine. She's always been the quiet, shy type. We've exchanged a few words, not enough to know each other, but enough to acknowledge that none of the superficial concepts of the average citizen of the Capitol interested us all that much.

The only other person I recognize is Ares LueElling. Another regular at social parties, he often hung around with Rory Illumons. He was a terrible flirt, always hanging around girls and winking at them seductively. He wasn't bad looking, but not exactly a Finnick Odair, and so for the most part we ignored his cheek. His father was also killed.

It briefly crosses my mind that, although I know that Rory's mother, who worked will all of our fathers, didn't escape their fate, he isn't here. I presume that he's among the numerous dead, because he's in no way any more or less special than the rest of us, and yet the child of someone relatively important, so would probably be here. To my surprise, I feel somewhat sad. He's the one person I felt something even close to a bond with. But at the same time, he will escape my fate.

I start stabbing things once more out of frustration, my blows feeble and largely inaccurate. I'm not surprised when laughter rings out around me again, cold and bitter. It bothers me, but still, I don't stop. Tears sting my eyes and threaten to spill over, but I blink them away. I've cried enough. I will not be humiliated anymore. And I will not cry over someone who doesn't even count as a friend. Instead, I turn to speculating, trying to push away the unpleasant thoughts with other information.

_We are not in the Training Center, I know this much. That building is tall, full of windows, and easy to see. It was also destroyed during the war. This place is cold, dark, and windowless. The harsh electric light does nothing to warm it up. I'd guess we're underground. Improvised quarters, in a place no one desperate would think to look. Not that there's anyone left to care about us._

_There will be nothing ceremonial about these games. We will have no stylists, no rating of our skills before the Gamemakers, no opening ceremony, no mentors. There's no point. We're not pitting District against District; we're being pitted against ourselves._

Someone yells that training's over. I, just like everyone else, head towards the entrance. They've had their fun, laughing at us, watching us make complete fools of ourselves. As we file out silently, I walk so that I end up beside Iris, hoping to talk to someone familiar. Anything but this silence I've been living in.

She inconspicuously tries to hurry away to join the boy she was with. The boy glares angrily; she refuses to meet my gaze. I grab her arm and pull her back. "Iris..." I say, my voice hoarse from lack of use. Dead eyes meet my own, and I am suddenly aware that this is how I must look. Unclean. Still dressed in the clothes I wore two weeks ago. Hair disheveled, face streaked with dirt and sweat, expressions numbed with a voiceless terror we cannot yet imagine.

She turns away from me, but I catch a glimpse of her own torn feelings. "You're going to die, Nieve. They'll make sure of it." A brief pause, then she leans in towards me to add something, lowering her voice so that only I can hear. "When you get the chance, run."

And then she's torn herself away from me again, returns to the side of the boy, hurrying like a disobedient child hoping not to be caught for something she's not supposed to do. She doesn't turn back, so my disgusted expression is wasted. Tears prick at me for the second time, but I push them away violently.

x.x.x.

I walk back to my quarters alone. They don't bother to supervise us. There's nowhere to run to.

I trail slowly past a pair of Gamemakers, recognizable due to their outfits; almost the same as those as any of the previous ones, but with a Mockingjay symbol embossed. Of course, all of the old Gamemakers who weren't allied with the rebels were executed; now there's one Gamemaker from each of the Districts. Another small bit of irony against us.

They nudge each other as they spot me, and then turn in my direction, effectively cornering me against the wall. I shrink back as one of them reaches towards me. I can easily smell the spirits on his breath. They're both drunk.

He traces my face, and I can't help but shrink back, repulsed. The other one smirks at me, muttering a long string of things under his breath. "…think they're all better than us…" and "…Snow…" is all I catch.

They take a step back, and I take the opportunity to escape, stumbling a few steps away. Their cruel laughter echoes in my ears, but they don't bother following. "Run, little Snowdrop, run." One of them calls out, stumbling against his companion. And so I do, his words echoing in the dim tunnel behind me.

I dart past the Avox who takes care of me, not bothering to fight my tears this time. She watches me without expression. I take refuge in my room, letting my tears stream down my face as I realize just how alone I really am.

x.x.x.

The time blends together, barely distinguishable from one moment to the next. I am unaware of the minutes, hours, possibly even days that pass. I can't tell night from day, breakfast from lunch, sleep from wakefulness. It's all the same, interminable. The only thing that stays constant is the subconscious awareness that soon I'm going to be fighting for my life. It drives me, fills me with something other than numbness. Fear, but at the same time, an odd sense of relief. I can't even make sense of this ordeal yet, but it means that it will soon be over.

For the first time other than our one training session, all of us (the Tributes) are put together. It's a kind of dinner party, but not the kind I'm used to. We line up for food instead of being served. I don't recognize anything. It resembles the fare I've been given during my stay here. Coarse grain bread, thin soup, a small selection of vegetables, and a sort of brown stew with some kind of unidentified meat in it. Someone behind me whispers that it's squirrel. I stare at it. _They wouldn't really feed us squirrel, would they?_ Just in case, I abstain from having any.

A few minutes into the meal, it becomes apparent that this was a bad idea. I realize that there's no way that this is enough to keep me from going hungry tonight. I glance around and consider getting up to get some before it's too late, then realize that it's probably not a good idea to attract more attention to myself. I'm already getting hostile glances from a good number of the other tributes, and I somehow doubt that I'd be permitted to serve myself anything extra anyways. I decide to just take my time with what I have.

We're sitting at a long table. Right next to us is another table; all the Gamemakers except for one are present. The missing one is the one representing District 12 and 13. Rumor has it that he or she is the Head Gamemaker. The Tributes sitting around me are discussing this in hushed tones, completely ignoring me. I don't particularly care. I don't have any interest in figuring out who the one planning out my death is.

I decide that this is as good a time as any to start examining the other twenty-three Tributes. As expected, half are boys, and half are girls. I'm sure that at least half of them, myself, Ares, Iris and Blaise included, are the children or grandchildren of the important people ruling different aspects of Panem. It only makes sense. But there seems to be quite a few who look blankly terrified, who genuinely don't seem to understand why they, out of all of the children of the Capitol, happen to be here, among us, right now.

A slow murmur starts spreading among our mixed group. I continue to slowly eat my soup, ignoring everything again. It slowly grows louder, and the Tributes who were previously talking around me stopped, and start craning their necks to see something. Curiously, I lift my head, only to find that my view is blocked by other people's heads. Resigned, I turn my attention to scraping whatever might be left in my bowl, keeping one eye in the direction of the commotion.

I can tell that someone new has entered the room. He takes his time. I assume he shakes a few hands, greets a few people in a voice too quiet for me to hear.

And then suddenly, everything clicks. I know exactly who the Gamemaker from District 12 is.

Someone bursts out laughing. Hysterically. It takes me a few seconds to realize that the laughter belongs to me. From across the table, Iris is gazing at me with round eyes. Ares has his eyebrows raised, and Blaise turns her eyes away disdainfully. The others just look scared. I find that I don't care.

A few Gamemakers make their way towards me. So does the newcomer. But it doesn't matter. I don't need a clear view to know exactly who he is anymore. I've seen him on television often enough, and have even come face to face with him once or twice.

It's just that I really had never expected to see Peeta Mellark in person again. Especially under these circumstances.


End file.
